Sandra Bullock and Bradley Cooper in 20th Century Fox's comedy, "All About Steve."

The season of giving may have come to a close, but Hollywood isn’t finished yet. The next few weeks will see it continue to widen the releases of a raft of Academy Award hopefuls and big-budget entertainments.

Which is lovely. But it still doesn’t make up for the little lumps of coal — or something — it’s been stuffing in our stockings all year.

Or perhaps you’ve already forgotten the dubious charms of "Miss March," a feel-good comedy about comas, soft-core pornography and a hard-core rapper with a catheter. Or the crudities of "The Ugly Truth," a movie full of vibrator jokes and girl-on-girl wrestling that briefly managed the impossible: making audiences feel sorry for Katherine Heigl.

So how did your movie year go? Were you lucky enough to stay away from the art houses when stinkers like "Donkey Punch" made brief appearances? Smart enough to heed Megan Fox’s own advice that seeing "Transformers 2" in IMAX could result in an aneurysm?

Then give yourself a pat on the back for making it through the year safe and sound and sane. It wasn’t easy: There was no shortage of bad movies, nor was their any shortage of bad movies that made millions. Indeed, one of the true signs of the coming apocalypse isn’t contained in the Mayan calendar but in the fact that "2012" made a ziggurat of money.

But some movies went that extra mile. They didn’t just disappoint; they horrified. They didn’t just annoy us; they worked, very hard to actively insult our intelligence. And in this, at least — in fact, only in this — did they inarguably succeed.

Below, the 2009 hall of shame.

WORST COMEDY: Candidates abound — the determinedly mindless "Dance Flick" and "Fired Up," along with the what-was-she-thinking Sandra Bullock farce, "All About Steve." So many yucks, so very few yuks. But it was difficult to find a more consistently unfunny comedy than "Year One," which made a mishmash of caveman movies and the Old Testament, added the overconfident Jack Black (and overexposed Michael Cera) — and then included a scene in which Black ate excrement. For which he’d obviously prepared by devouring this script.

WORST CARTOON: It’s tempting to nominate last year’s "Delgo" again, only because I’m not finished hating it. And "Aliens in the Attic" needed a makeover. But worse was "Battle for Terra," a cartoon in which the aliens looked like spermatozoa, the humans looked like marionettes and the writing was from hunger. The voices included those of phone-company shill Luke Wilson and poor, pale, perpetually inappropriate Evan Rachel Wood. But don’t feel sorry for her — pity the kids who were dragged to this 3-D asteroid.

WORST ART FILM: Just as modesty counts for a lot, pretension makes small flaws loom large — which is how pictures like "Away We Go" turn cringe-worthy. But "Humpday" managed to be both inflated with importance and incapable of simple filmmaking, turning a tale of two lumpy guys planning to make a porno into its own orgy — a wall-to-wall extravaganza of muddy sound, blurred close-ups and drive-by shooting. "Mumblecore," its fans call the movement. Stumblebum is more like it.

WORST SCI-FI: What you’re about to see is true. Truly awful, that is, if you let yourself be internet-duped into watching "The Fourth Kind," a faked docudrama that purported to mix "actual" footage with re-enactments. Except it was all staged, and badly, as trained psychotherapist Milla Jovovich — yeah, right — wonders why her patients are dreaming of owls and finds out it’s those aliens and their damn probes again. Jovovich should go back to her "Resident Evil" zombies. There’s more intelligent life there.

WORST OSCAR HOPEFUL: Imagine sitting in your living room, all dressed up, waiting for a prom date that never shows. Pretty pathetic, right? And pretty similar to how the folks behind "Amelia" must have felt. The movie had it all: A big biographical hook (America’s first great "aviatrix"), a huge star (two-time Oscar winner Hilary Swank) and a lush period setting. Too bad it didn’t have a compelling angle or reason to exist — and that it too was soon lost, disappearing somewhere over the ocean of Coulda Been.

WORST "DOCUMENTARY": Plenty of movies abused the form to launch full-on polemics this year, but more annoying were the ones that combined nonfiction interviews with non-funny comics. "Paper Heart," the twee story of Charlene Yi’s search for love, quickly demonstrated why the simpering stand-up hasn’t found any. But it took Sacha Baron Cohen — of course — to take the booby prize with "Bruno," a mix of false-pretense interviews and grotesque stereotypes. Even Borat would have walked out.

WORST NIA VARDALOS MOVIE: Who knew? Once she came out of nowhere with a surprise hit; now she’s her own bad-film category. But that big fat Greek anomaly suddenly returned this year with not one but two awful romantic comedies — "My Life in Ruins" (I’ll say) and "I Hate Valentine’s Day." Both had their legions of detractors, but give the latter even more discredit for Vardalos’ direction, as cheesily indigestible as last week’s spanakopita. Sorry, but take this career off the spit; it’s done.

WORST IMPORT: What kind of trade imbalance is this? We give India call centers and millions of outsourced jobs; they give us "Chandni Chowk to China," a hooray-for-Bollywood comedy/musical/thriller/aberration (and the first Mumbai film to get a major Hollywood release) featuring the talent-impaired Akshay Kumar. A mistaken-identity martial-arts farce, it was like Dickens plus "Rocky" plus the Three Stooges — minus any sort of fun, and stretched into a 2½-hour all-you-can-wince buffet.

WORST DRAMA: There was some strong competition here, particularly from "Shrink," a self-pitying indie starring Kevin Spacey as a smirking, suicidal, pot-smoking therapist. (Spacey as a shrink? Suddenly Milla Jovovich doesn’t sound so bad.) But the year’s real stinker was "The Informers," a dreary Bret Easton Ellis soap starring Kim Basinger, Mickey Rourke and way too many pretty boys in black suits and sunglasses feeling sorry for their own tragic L.A. lives. So privileged. So depressed. So what.

WORST WORST: Lars von Trier warned you early and often — super-slow-motion, booming classical music, title cards, Willem Dafoe. He was, once again, making An Important Statement. So if you ignored the signs (and the artiness), did you have anyone to blame but yourself when his "Antichrist" exploded in a cataclysm of hardcore sex, gory genital mutilation and talking animals? Sure you did. You could blame the misogynist von Trier, who never seems to be happier than when he’s abusing female characters on-screen. "Chaos reigns!" a snarling fox — not voiced by George Clooney, by the way — announced at one point. And it must. Or how else could anyone, anywhere, take garbage like this seriously?

Stephen Whitty may be reached at swhitty@starledger.com or (212) 790-4435.